


Slow Burning Lights

by catherinewestwood



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:17:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherinewestwood/pseuds/catherinewestwood
Summary: Scenes from days in Miranda's life.





	

She notices the old ladies getting ready to board a flight, and one lost lamb amongst them who cannot find a good seat at the gate or her bearings. The other biddies on her row beckon her closer and read her boarding pass, and carefully usher her into their midst.

These ladies, their hair far whiter than their skin, are clasping the hands of their friends who walk past each row; the stragglers’ seats are probably furthest back in the plane.

She sees them from her seat at the opposing gate in the airport; these women are heading to Vegas, alone with their friends, their husbands dead. They are heading to Vegas on a Monday, after decades of servitude in marriage.

And, with that thought, Miranda is glad to be divorced.

___________________________________________________

After trying to reconcile decades of creating a standard, then trying to exceed it, in the end, she may be defeated by it. There is a difference between needing and wanting, or even requiring and choosing. But now, size zeroes are required, and hundreds of billions are spent as a mater of form. The form was created, or rather constructed in her mind.

There are never enough shades of eyeliner or lipstick. So more and more colors are created, which in turn create demand. At some point, there has to be a halt to the madness, the never-ending assembly line of the more. But that would biting the hand that feeds, and those situations where the creation is bigger than the creator do not end well.

And, Miranda wonders, if it is time to quit her job.

______________________________________________

She notices the sloping cut of a passing leather jacket before she notices the woman wearing it. It is a good jacket; the grain of the animal skin flow together, like tributaries that never cross, and the way the light reflects so cleanly off of the leather: Not too brightly, with granular respect for wear and tear.

Then she notices the hand peeking out from the end of the sleeve, sure and purposeful in asking for a ticket. The slightly harried puffing out of cheeks, indicating that the nameless woman is exasperated by the mundane, required tasks of plebeians: Of checking in, of security theater. These actions are too onerous, too useless, too much for the woman who wears such a black leather jacket.

The russet hair is another item on the check list, and given the quality of the dye job, its presence outweighs other factors.

And, Miranda wonders, why her mind always insists on dissecting everything about everyone around her, and always finds them all so lacking.

_________________________________________

She wraps her fingers around the pristine, white cardboard, drinking deeply from her Starbucks cup. She loves these cups: the cleanness of the design; the nearly-stark-but-not-quite shade of white; the tapered shape that allows her to gain perfect purchase midway down from the lip; the comforting weight of the liquid sloshing inside.

Sometimes, when she is most distracted, she is given to nibbling on the lip of the cup, drawing great pleasure from sinking her teeth into the curved, rolled edge of cardboard. It is her victory, her planting of a flag, of bending that perfect shape to her will.

No one else has seen her do this, because even when she is distracted, Miranda never forgets that she is rarely alone.

A thousand blogs, a million words written, dissecting her persona, her behavior, her tics, her viciousness, her shallowness, her inability to love, her coldness, her poisonous looks.

And, Miranda wishes for a moment that the world knew she really was not all that complicated.

________________________________________

She tries not to roll her eyes: Really, what the hell is this fellow thinking, not putting any color into his Spring collection? This is Dior, for God’s sake. These hallways have seen the creation of the New Look, and then later the Trapezium Line by Yves Saint Laurent.

And now, she is reduced to watching these pieces of dreck, of pointless flotsam, of suffocating blacks, grays, and navy blues.

She could at least understand obsidian, or viridian, or rust, as long as they are limited to the trims of dresses, skirts, and shorts. But what she really longs for is lavender, eggshell, fire-engine-red, desaturated pink, polka dots, gentle pleating, empire waists, and carefree silk.

She tries not to bite his head off, but Miranda decides that this will be the last collection he does for this House.

_____________________________________

She enters the house after 10PM, so of course, it is silent everywhere. There is the faintest trace of jasmine, and she guesses it is from the flowers in the study.

She toes off her heels, and undoes her coat, throws it on the side table; everything can wait until the morning.

She does not proceed further into the house, but takes a moment to close her eyes, and exhale; a moment, a movement, an effort to center herself, to shed herself.

When she opens her eyes, things are bit less hectic, and she climbs the stairs. Of course, her daughters are asleep, and she misses them even so. She supposes that parenthood is a multifaceted, lifelong burden of never being enough, never worrying enough, never loving enough. Because all parents are forever judged, and she is a league apart in that regard.

She kisses their foreheads, and marvels as always at the smoothness and lassitude of their bodies in sleep. There really is nothing like the sleep of privileged youth: All the cares in the world amount to nothing, tomorrow is filled with nothing but challenges that will be conquered either that day or another. Time is never-ending, as is opportunity.

She brushes Caroline wild hair away from her face, then she adjusts Cassidy’s blanket, and all is well in the world again.

She gently closes their door, and walks to her bedroom. She opens it softly, knowing how just to turn the knob and how forcefully to swing it open to make the motions soundless.

Without even taking off her stockings, make up, or jewelry, she slides on top of the covers, and kisses her lover’s exposed shoulder.

Andrea wakes slowly, gently, and is already smiling. Miranda nearly mirrors her expression – it’s still too early in the day for a full-fledged grin; that will come later – and edges closer.

“How was your day?” comes the sleepy question even as Andrea opens her arms in invitation. 

Miranda slides her face into her Andrea’s neck, and fits the curve of her nose against her throat, where she can feel the throb of her lover’s pulse. “Getting better,” Miranda says, and sighs again, feeling the outside world slipping away. She feels it sliding away under the bedroom door, tumbling down the stairs, and escaping like gas through the bottom of the house’s main door.

For now, the night seems to stretch on, and Miranda is glad of it.

Tomorrow is another day.

**Author's Note:**

> More stories at catherinewestwood.wordpress.com


End file.
